“We’re falling!” Yewa said, like in a dream.
My fingers slipped from Fofo’s, and I was now holding on to my sister and bleating like a ram. Once my knee touched the ground, the machine crashed.
When I came to, I had a headache and was lying facedown, my body on the road, my head in the grass. My knee was bleeding, but the cut wasn’t deep. Yewa stood in the shrubs screaming and fighting off a man who held her wrists in one hand. The other three descended on Fofo with sticks. The blows rained on him until he fell, his hands wrapped around his head, which was almost in between his legs. He writhed and took the beating without a sound, except for an occasional groan. Yewa and I did the crying.
I was the last to be rounded up; a man grabbed my hands and cuffed them behind me with huge rough hands. I didn’t resist, hoping that they wouldn’t kill Fofo.
“If you shout again, we go kill dis magomago man!” one of the men warned us.
“Please, don’t kill him,” I said, sobbing.
“You children thought you could skip school without telling anybody,” the familiar voice said behind me.
It was Monsieur Abraham, our games master. I turned and looked him straight in the face. In the moonlight, he was smiling, his white teeth gleaming. He wore a T-shirt and a track suit, as if he were coaching us in soccer.
Disappointment filled my heart. I remembered the glucose he used to give us those first days when we couldn’t sleep well at night and got to school tired. I felt stupid for being duped and falling into such a well-orchestrated plot.
“Please, monsieur, don’t kill him,” I begged Monsieur Abraham, as Yewa continued to wail. “We won’t run again.”
“Really?” he said.
“We shall go to Gabon, I promise.”
“Of course.”
“Monsieur, we’ll do anything you want in Gabon.”
“Maybe you begin by telling this princess to shut up.”
“Yewa, they won’t kill him,” I explained, and freed one hand to place on her mouth. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her sight was trained on Fofo. “He’s not dead,” I said. “He’ll be OK.”
As I spoke to my sister, Fofo Kpee tried to get up but fell. They didn’t allow us near him. His face was bloody and one eye was swollen. His clothes were torn, his pockets empty, cefa and naira notes scattered everywhere, like donations littering an important shrine. One man was fidgeting with his phone, and when he couldn’t make a call he cussed his network.
The men started preparing to leave, picking up the money and turning the bikes around, in the direction we had come from. Two men bundled Fofo atop one bike, and Yewa and I were sandwiched between two men on the other. We began the journey back to the house from which we thought we had escaped.
WHEN WE GOT HOME it was still dark. Monsieur Abraham collected the keys from Fofo’s neck and opened the door and shoved us inside. They threw Fofo on the floor.
“You’re never permitted to speak to the children again!” our games master said, as Fofo writhed and twisted, unable to get up. They didn’t let us touch him, so we sat on our bed like orphans at a parent’s wake while two men searched the inner room with flashlights and another searched around outside the house. We couldn’t see Fofo well, so we listened eagerly for his heavy breathing.
When they had finished the search and reorganized the inner room to their liking, they moved our bed and carton of clothes there.
“Get in there!” Monsieur Abraham said, not looking us in the eye. “You’ll stay there till further notice. One of us shall stay here to make sure no one tries to run away again.”
“Yes, monsieur,” I said. “We won’t disappoint you again.”
“Fofo Kpee, Fofo Kpee,” my sister cried, and pointed at the body on the floor as I dragged her into the room.
“Little one,” the teacher said, “if you behave well, he’ll be OK.”
“Please, tell Big Guy we are sorry,” I said. “Tell Monsieur and Madame Ahouagnivo we are sorry.”
“I think they’d be happy to know that,” he said. “It’s not nice to betray friends. Not nice.”
He locked us in the inner room. It was darker than we thought. We were restless and disoriented because they had moved things around. I felt like I was going to bump into something. With one hand I held on to Yewa’s dress to keep track of her; I used the other to shield my wounded knee. We stayed near the door, trying to hear Fofo. Now, the bikes outside revved up and departed, their noise momentarily drowning out Fofo’s breathing.
We heard the front door close and footsteps approach the door to our room. We backed away, stumbling over things, and I lost Yewa in the darkness. I reached the wall and squatted, then lay atop the pile of cement bags, hoping to blend in. There was a jangle of keys. When the door opened, our room brightened, and fresh air came in.
A man’s profile filled the doorway as if trying to deny us the little light we were getting now. A giant of a man, he didn’t attempt to enter the room. From the position of his hands, I could see he was carrying things. Uncertain what he might do to us, I peered around, trying to find my sister.
“Where you dey?” he called out, his voice full of menace. I said nothing. “No joke wid me o. I warn you.”
“I am h-here,” I stammered, getting up and standing with the bed between me and him.
“Come, take dis,” he said. “Where you dey?”
“I’m sorry, I’m here.”
“You must cooperate, d’accord?”
I inched around the bed, feeling my way toward him, craning to see Fofo, to no avail.
“Mangez . . . your food,” he said, and pushed something warm and heavy against me.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing two plastic containers.
“You must finish everyting we give you. . . .”
“Yes, monsieur. We will.”
“Bon garçon,” he said, lightening up at my false enthusiasm. “If you behave well, I go dey nice to you. If not, you go see for yourself. I no be bad man. Also, me I be fader; I get my own children. I no want sell anoder man children. I just dey do my work o.”
The food inside the containers was warm, and the lids were so tight that I couldn’t smell what it was. I put them on the bed and then turned to the big man.
“What of Fofo?” I said.
“I done bring am food too.”
“We can feed him, please. He’s very sick.”
“Impossible, no, just forget am for now. . . . And dis na your toilet.” He pushed something else against me. “Faites attention. Some water dey inside.”
“God bless you, monsieur!” I said, and collected it from him. It was a big plastic pail filled quarter way with water. There was a stack of old newspapers on the lid.
“Use it well o,” he laughed. “And make you put the paper in de pail. I go come get dem tomorrow.”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Everyting go dey fine. I like de way you dey behave, old boy. I no care wheder dem sell you or not. As I talk before, I just dey do my job.”
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“You no fear anyting. You get courage pass your fofo. If you behave well, I go treat you well, you know. . . . Where your sister?”
“Yewa,” I called out, and looked around the darkness. “Maybe she’s asleep,” I lied.